


Au pays qui te ressemble

by tropes



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Coming Out, Homophobia, M/M, Not a lot of hockey to be honest, Recreational Drug Use, and people on ice, because i know fuck-all about hockey, there's a puck right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tropes/pseuds/tropes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Baudelaire.
> 
> This fic would not exist without [notmissmarple](http://archiveofourown.org/users/darthrami/pseuds/notmissmarple), [alexscat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexscat/pseuds/alexscat), and [Nny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny). I appreciate you so much!!! Y'all ripped this thing up and I am so happy you did, because it's better for it.
> 
> Also, this fic was started in March or April, with the plot bunny, "Oh, what if Jack bought Bitty an oven over the summer!" Um. So. Anyone who reads Bittle's twitter knows how Jossed that idea was. Which is fine! But I already had about 5k of this, and I didn't want to scrap it, so I was like, well! What if the oven was just the beginning?
> 
> And here we are.
> 
> All French and Québécois in this fic is my responsibility alone. I am a French speaker, but I had to research the colloquialisms, so please please please tell me if I fucked it up. I looked all over the place, trying to make sure that what I used, especially the profanity, is as current as possible. I'm actually really nervous about this! So, again, if it's fucked up, please let me know. :D!

 

_X_

Jack brings it up with his mum about halfway to Providence.

“It would be good to do something. For the team.”

“Hm?” Alicia answers, distracted by weaving through the traffic on 495. “How do you mean, sweetie?”

Jack bites the inside of his lip, swallows, and rephrases. “Mama, I… didn’t get this contract by myself, you know? I was thinking it would be good to take a little of the signing bonus money and do something for the Haus, as a gesture.” His hands twist together in his lap. “To say thanks.”

He swallows and screws up his courage. “We already have something planned. For Bittle’s birthday. Maybe I could add to that?”

Jack can’t see Alicia’s eyes behind her big sunglasses, but she smiles. “I think that’s very kind and thoughtful of you. What did you have in mind?”

Jack feels his answering smile grow into a grin. “Just a couple things.”

 

_X_

The properties Jack looks at with his mum start to blend together after the twelfth listing they visit with the real estate agent. There are apartments and lofts and condos and houses, and—it’s a lot. Jack takes about a thousand pictures, and not just of kitchens. This is a big decision, he guesses. It’s not like Jack really cares about where he lives, beyond the basics. Hot running water, heat, walls, roof, commute time to the rink. He’s not really invested in comparing molded plaster to exposed brick, which is one of the reasons why his mum is helping him. She and the agent debate pros and cons while Jack wanders from room to room, snapping shots of the way the light slants across warm wood floors and listening with half an ear.

“...Jack, what do you think of this kitchen?” Alicia calls, and he walks over to peer over her shoulder at the setup. The agent starts to go on about soapstone counters and Spanish tile floors, which, okay? Is that special?

He interrupts her. “Is that a good kind of oven?” The logo says Viking, and it looks really—broad? Big, anyway. Like it could fit lots of pies.

The agent (Jack thinks her name is Madison, but he’s honestly not sure) blinks rapidly a few times and then plasters a big fake smile on her face.

“Yes! This is a 7-Series Viking gas range! Professional quality! I didn’t realize you were interested in cooking!” She speaks only in exclamations because, Jack presumes, she is Just! So! Excited! About! Real Estate! He’s honestly impressed that she’s kept it up for hours like she has. He couldn’t do it.

Jack clears his throat and feels a flush rising up his neck. “Er. I’m not. In particular.” He turns to look at his mum, who is looking back at him with a raised eyebrow and an expression that he has no idea how to interpret.

“Kitchen seems good,” he mutters, and walks away before she can see how red he’s about to be in about 10 seconds.

(Who is he kidding? She sees everything now, has done since Parse, since— _Il est fucké_.)

 

_X_

When his mum drops him off at the Haus, after they’ve talked it through over dinner, he stretches out on his bed, fiddling with his phone. He still plays that snake game that he used to have on his Nokia. Shitty made him replace the phone their frog year, but he downloaded the game app since Jack didn’t know how to do it himself.

The sun has nearly set, and his whole room is bathed in orange when Bittle pops his head around the jamb.

“How’d it go? Did you find a place?”

Jack smiles at his phone, then lets his glance flicker in Bittle’s direction. “Yeah. Seems all right. Wanna see the kitchen?”

Bitty’s face does something complicated, and he does this little back-and-forth dance over the threshold before bouncing over to Jack’s bed and sitting cross-legged on the end.

“Sure,” Bitty replies on a quick sigh. Jack doesn’t entirely understand why Bittle’s smile is fake, but it is.

Jack pulls his camera out of its bag and starts scrolling through until he finds _the place_ , the place with the Viking stove. He hands the camera to Bittle and watches, stomach knotting, as Bittle chews his lower lip and scrolls forward slowly, totally silent. Jack can tell when Bittle gets to the photos of the kitchen because he just stops. Jack’s hands gradually turn to fists in the duvet at his hips, but he waits.

He knows how to wait. Has gotten really good at waiting, the last few months.

After what seems like forever, but was probably only a minute or two, Bitty looks up, and that brittle smile is back, but his eyes are soft.

“It looks amazing.” He holds the camera out to Jack, and Jack takes it.

Eric ( _Bittle, Bittle, remember it’s Bittle_ ) looks out the window, and Jack’s breath catches as the fading light burnishes the dark brown of his eyes to bronze. Jack isn’t prone to poetry, but Eric Bittle is ravishing in this light. Jack feels flayed open by the very sight of him.

“I hope you know you’ll be terribly missed,” Bittle says.

“It’s not so far,” Jack says. He hears his own rough voice and lifts the camera to take the quickest of shots before he packs the camera back in the bag. He’s lying to himself; he knows why Bitty’s smile looks like it hurts. If they only had a little more time—

A bullhorn echoes up the stairs, and they both jump. _Shitty_. “BROOOOOOOOOOOS! HOCKEYMEN! LEND ME YOUR BEERS! WE HAVE STUDYING TO DO. WE HAVE FINALING TO COMPLETE. SOME OF US HAVE TO ACHIEVE ALUMNUS STATUS WHETHER WE LIKE IT OR NOT. BUT FIRST! WE HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM! CHOWDER! WHAT IS OUR DRINKING PROBLEM?”

Chowder’s uncertain reply warbles up and down so badly that Jack can’t make it out.

“THAT’S RIGHT! TOMORROW IS SPRING C, AND FOLLOWING SPRING C IS READING WEEK. HAUS RULES—NO BOOZE DURING READING WEEK! SPRING C IS YOUR OPPORTUNITY TO GO BIG OR GO HOME. WE HAVE HERE! FIFTEEN HANDLES OF POPOV! THREE FIFTHS OF JIM BEAM! A HALF CASE OF SAILOR JERRY! SHIT! LOADS! OF BEER! AAAAAAAND SOME MAKER’S MARK which I am taking with me because you are all goddamn heathens who CAN’T APPRECIATE DECENT BOURBON! YOUR MISSION! SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT! IS TO PARTY YOUR FUCKING ASSES OFF TOMORROW AT SPRING C _responsibly, please_.”

Bitty’s got his face in his hands, giggling, as the sun finally slips below the horizon.

“Well? You heard the man. We have a mission.” Bitty stands, affecting a gentlemanly bow, and Jack can’t help but smile at his effortless and unconscious grace.

“After you.”

 

_X_

It’s pretty easy to arrange things with the school. Usually Jack’s reluctant to use his name to make things happen. It seems really déclassé even though he knows that’s how the world works—that’s _networking_ or whatever. But he talks to the student housing people that are in charge of the Greek and sports residences and they surprise him with how excited they are about his ‘donation.’ They tell him it’s tax-deductible, and help him fill out the paperwork.

One of the administrators is totally speechless when Jack shows them what he wants. The other admin, a guy with a calculator permanently attached to his hand, gets really excited because apparently they had budgeted for some improvements to the Haus, the LAX house, and a few others that were already scheduled for this summer. With Jack’s contribution the university will be able to do way more with the portion allocated to the Haus—make it nicer, do some plumbing work, look at the roof. Jack walks out of the student housing administrative office with a folder full of paperwork, having written the biggest cheque he’s ever written in his life, and heads back to the Haus to study for finals.

 

_X_

Jack doesn’t really have a favorite color. Their jerseys are scarlet, of course, but he doesn’t particularly have a preference for it or anything. Well. He _didn’t_. Until—

Spring C, Bittle’s birthday, and the weeks following pass by in a rush of more studying and less hockey than Jack prefers. Most of it blurs together, but there are two days in particular that are indelibly burned into his memory.

First of all: Eric Bittle in unfairly tiny, bright red shorts, swaying around the front porch of the Haus with only one shoe? Hysterical, as well as a near-lethal combination of adorable and hot that Jack can just barely resist. He has to quit drinking early in the day just to keep his damn hands to himself, _crisse_. Swiping Bittle’s phone to take that selfie-picture of Bits and Shitty for Twitter is… illuminating. Jack gets about eight entries back in Bittle’s timeline before Bittle squeaks and swipes the phone back out of his hands, but those eight entries are _telling_ if you know what to look for. They give Jack enough courage to offer to take Bittle on piggyback when the PBR starts to catch up to him for real -- which turns out to be torturous in a really good way that Jack saves for close examination until he’s behind a securely locked door.

Second of all: Far be it from Jack to ever enjoy when someone else is crying, but he can’t help the hot, nervous jolts that rush through him when Bittle sees the new Viking oven, looks at Dex, then Shitty, then Jack for the longest moment, _then_ spends the next hour alternately bursting into happy tears and flinging himself at whoever’s closest (Jack is closest; Jack is _always_ closest; if Jack has his way, he will always _be_ closest) and making elaborate plans to bake, like, galettes and soufflés and what-have-yous. That whole night Jack wants nothing more than to tighten his fist in Bittle’s shirt at the curve of his lower back, to pull him close, to press a kiss to each reddened eyelid, to lick into Bittle’s mouth in the middle of the Haus living room, with everyone there, so everyone can see.

He doesn’t, of course. But it’s a pretty close thing.

Regardless, for the whole first week after graduation, Jack wakes all in a rush to the muffled silence and new-paint smells of his Providence townhouse with the phantom pressure of Bittle’s arms and legs wrapped around him at Spring C; presses his face into his pillow and revels in the sense-memory of Bittle literally crying a blotchy mess onto Jack’s Samwell Hockey t-shirt; smiles into the dark to think of the morning after Bittle’s birthday, just the two of them in the kitchen with the early morning light streaming in, sipping coffee and splitting the best damn cinnamon roll Jack’s ever had.

Jack knows how to wait -- is _happy_ to wait, now that he understands what he’s waiting for.

 

_X_

The student housing people keep Jack updated on the changes to the Haus. They send him specs and the revised proposal for final approval, and he signs off.

On the day demolition starts, Nursey just texts him five pages of exclamation points and the word “ _Dude_.”

 

_X_

He and Bittle text even more than he expected, more than he and Shitty, even, because Shitty’s totally overwhelmed with preparing for law school and family shit and Lardo (Jack had hugged him, had _initiated_ the hug, when Shitty cornered him the morning of graduation and told him, manic with joy and a total lack of sleep, that Lardo had stayed over, that they were _together_ ; as if there was ever any doubt). So, Jack knows that Bittle is in Georgia until mid-July; that he fibbed about how long he’d be home so he could get a summer job at a local bakery, and he _loves_ it; that he’s planning to be back for training; that he’s ecstatic over a new album that’s about to drop by someone named Solange that Jack had to google; that he’s having a harder time than ever talking to his dad; that he misses Jack almost as much as Jack misses him.

Every morning before he goes out on the ice, Jack turns his phone on silent and stows it in his locker, and he knows that by the time he comes back there will be something there from Eric Bittle, something just for him.

Eric Bittle  
Today 10:52 AM  
I am firmly convinced that pastry  
cream is an item which has  
been put on this great green  
earth to test my fortitude. Fuck.

Eric Bittle  
Today 11:13 AM  
Can you tell me the address of  
where you practice? I want to  
send some mini pies to your team.

Eric Bittle  
Today 11:18 AM  
UNLESS YOU THINK THAT’S A  
BAD IDEA??????? IS THAT  
WEIRD? I feel like you can  
never go wrong with mini pies???

Jack Zimmermann  
Today 12:34 PM  
Bittle.

Eric Bittle  
Yes! Hi!

Jack Zimmermann  
I don’t quite know how to  
say this.

Eric Bittle  
Yeeeees?

Jack Zimmermann  
If you send mini pies, they  
won’t make it to the rink.

Eric Bittle  
…

Jack Zimmermann  
I leave the decision up to  
you.  
(Although, how would you  
ship them? Have you  
considered practicalities,  
Bittle?  
Inquiring minds.)

Eric Bittle  
Chirp Chirp Chirp.

They always texted each other when Jack was still at Samwell, but this feels different. The tips of Jack’s fingers throb in time with his pulse as he types his responses; he can feel heat rising in his cheeks when he’s not quite sure that Bittle might be flirting with him; he almost makes an appointment with the team doctor before he realizes that he doesn’t have a suddenly-appearing cardiac condition -- his heart is skipping beats every time his phone buzzes.

It’s extremely unsettling.

He loves it.

Jack Zimmermann  
Today 6:27 PM  
Hey.

Eric Bittle  
Hi Jack!

Eric Bittle  
Today 6:39 PM  
Were you just saying hi, or…?

Jack Zimmermann  
Sorry.  
I was about to burn my dinner.

Eric Bittle  
Oh no!  
What are you having?

Jack Zimmermann  
Chicken.

Eric Bittle  
I feel surprised.

Jack Zimmermann  
I suppose your dinner is  
composed of grits and lard  
and pork all somehow  
molded into pie form.

Eric Bittle  
RUDE, JACK ZIMMERMANN.

Jack Zimmermann  
At least there’s protein  
in there.

Eric Bittle  
JACK ZIMMERMANN I  
SWEAR.

Jack finds himself smiling more, in general, which is weird. Like, he’ll walk into his bathroom and glance at the mirror and startle himself with the evidence of his own happiness staring him in the face. It makes him nervous. He’s trained himself very carefully, over a very long period of time, not to hope. Hope is a surefire route to disappointment.

Hockey isn’t about hope. It’s a thing he loves to do, and a thing he has to do, and a thing that, more often than not, is a certainty. Hope isn’t a factor if you practice like Jack does, which is a good thing, because Jack doesn’t indulge in hope.

He doesn’t. _Shut up_ , he _doesn’t_.

Eric Bittle  
Today 9:27 AM  
I feel like it’s very wrong that  
I have to get up even earlier  
for this job than I did for  
checking practice.

Jack Zimmermann  
Surely not. It’s so hard for me  
to imagine you wanting to get  
paid to bake more than you  
want to get checked. Are you  
sure you’re feeling all right?

Eric Bittle  
It’s a good thing you’re pretty.

Jack Zimmermann  
Compensation for a traumatic  
childhood.  
I was a terribly ugly baby.

Eric Bittle  
I know.

Jack Zimmermann  
You do not.

Eric Bittle  
I do! Rans and Holster showed  
me that Cup news photo.  
From when your dad won.

Jack Zimmermann  
God, they are relentless.  
Are you on a break?

Eric Bittle  
Yeah, this is basically my  
lunchtime, alas.

Jack Zimmermann  
Me too.  
Not lunch, obviously.  
But taking a short break.

Eric Bittle  
You don’t usually respond to  
my texts until after practice  
is over.

Jack Zimmermann  
Well.  
Maybe I couldn’t wait to see  
what you had to say today.

Eric Bittle  
:)

Jack Zimmermann  
:-) 

By mid-June, they talk to each other one-on-one more than either of them participate in the Team Chat -- which is why Jack shouldn’t be surprised that Shitty notices.

Shits  
Today 1:33 PM  
so.

Jack Zimmermann  
What?

Shits  
bro. what’s up.

Jack Zimmermann  
Practice?  
What’s up with you?

Shits  
BRO. Jack. Talk to me.

Jack’s eyes narrow in confusion, and he sits on the locker room bench in his shorts, toweling his hair dry, and tries to figure out what the hell Shitty’s trying to ask him.

Jack Zimmermann  
About what?

Shits  
Dude. I know you’re busy. But  
you have to know that when  
you go all quiet, the boys  
worry about you.  
I’m worried about you. I know  
you’re allergic to talking about  
your feelings or whatever, but  
with all these recent changes  
in your life, the radio silence  
is a big red flag.

Jack Zimmermann  
Oh.

Shits  
YEAH FUCKING OH. I’m  
surprised Bitty’s not blowing  
up my phone by now wtf you  
know he worries about you the  
most

And that—Jack doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want anyone to worry about him, he doesn’t _deserve_ —

“Hey, Jack-O-Lantern! You got a fuckin’ hat trick in practice! Buck up!” Deetz slaps Jack on the ass as he walks by. Jack jumps, startled, and Deetz saunters off, calling out, “Nah, Jelly, that one doesn’t work either! He’s the only rookie without a nickname, we gotta get on this!”

Jack straightens up with a huff, sets his phone down on the bench, and finishes dressing. He says his goodbyes to his team and walks to his car. Even close to the ocean as they are, the summer sun bakes into him, makes sweat prickle at his temples. He sits in his Audi for a long time, lets the heat melt his muscles until every movement seems as slow as molasses, and stares at his phone.

He unlocks it, and scrolls through his contacts to S.

“Hey.” Jack’s voice sounds strange to his own ears, as if he’s hearing himself shout from a long distance. “So, about Bittle.”

 

_X_

It’s a relief, telling Shitty how close he and Bittle have become, confessing his own tentative hopes, and his growing confidence that Bittle may return his feelings. It doesn’t change anything in his daily life, but he feels like a weight’s been lifted. It’s similar to how Jack felt when he came out to Shitty in freshman year -- there’s a lot in Jack’s life that he feels unsure of, but he’ll always be sure of Shitty.

Jack settles into his place slowly. For the first few weeks, he lives out of boxes and duffel bags until his mum Skypes him and sees all his stuff jammed into the corner of his living room. After scolding him gently (it’s always gently now; Jack sometimes wishes she’d just shout at him), she’d threatened to fly down to help him out until he’d promised to start unpacking on the weekend. So he unpacks clothes and books and brand new linens and, finally, in the very last two boxes, kitchen stuff.

Jack’s no great cook, but he manages to feed himself well enough considering he’s fucking _magané_ from training camp. There are things he misses, though.

He tries to make himself a salted caramel apple pie like he’s watched Bittle do at least fifteen times, and he must have screwed it up somehow because the crust gets all cracked and weird and it ends up overflowing onto the heating element in his stupid, giant, professional Viking oven. The smoke alarm goes off.

He takes a picture and sends it to Bittle. Bittle sends him a shocked face emoji that looks like Munch’s scream, and then a crying laughing emoji, and then a line of five heart-eyed emojis. Jack fumbles his iPhone and almost drops it in the ruined pie.

 

_X_

By the time the reno is well underway in late June, nearly the whole team knows Jack is somehow involved, but they don’t know to what extent. The only person who knows everything is Shitty, and as loud and ridiculous as Shitty can be, he is the most astonishingly loyal secret keeper that Jack has ever met. So Jack leaves it up to Shitty to disseminate just enough information to the team so they are aware that: a) the Haus is getting some major upgrades; b) the fact of the renovation itself isn’t particularly classified, but the nature of two of the upgrades is TOP FUCKING SECRET as regards one player in particular; c) Jack is vaguely involved in these upgrades, but his involvement is 100% TOP FUCKING SECRET FOR ALL TIME, FOR ALL TIME CHOWDER I AM SERIOUS.

The Team Chat is full of updates from Nursey and Dex, who were the only ones to stay through the whole summer. All references to Haus improvements are carefully steered away from mentions of the kitchen, instead focusing on new paint in the living room, the fact that the water is off for a day and a half while the wonky plumbing in the downstairs bath is finally addressed, and the noisy work on the roof.

Bittle’s main contribution to the conversation is to ask whether or not the bedrooms are being worked on. (“Only the empty ones, Bits, the worker guys said that as people cycle out over the next few years they’ll hit ‘em all up w/ new paint. Your inner sanctum is safe ;););)” “For goodness’ sake, I didn’t think I’d get chirped over a simple question” “You thought wrong brah” “See if I make those sour cherry tarts you loved so much again, Dex.” “SHIT. I’M SORRY BITTY I’M SO SORRY PLEASE” “...I’ll think about it.” Jack had smiled all afternoon and said nothing.)

Jack gets a lot of enthusiastic emojis from Ransom and Holster. Most of them seem happy, but a few he can’t decipher at all. What the hell does the eggplant one mean, anyway?

 

_X_

Johnson  
Today 2:47 AM  
I feel honored to have played  
a small part in your Everyone-  
Can-See-It romantic love trope,  
and I’m rooting for this Gay-  
Guy-Seeks-Popular-Jock  
overarching plotline 100% all  
the way until the ultimate  
Love-Confessions-and-Kissing-  
in-the-Rain scene.

Jack Zimmermann  
Today 6:05 AM  
...Thanks, Johnson. I think?

 

_X_

“You know this is a fucking big deal, right? I mean, this is a massive gesture, Jack, you understand that, right?” Shitty keeps running his hands through his hair, which is, tragically, pretty damn short since he cut it for graduation. Paired with the moustache, it makes him look weirdly grown up, and not in a good way. He’s gonna have to either shave it all off or grow a hipster beard, but Jack’s not gonna be the one to tell him so.

“Yeah,” Jack replies, refocusing on taping his stick. The Skype connection skips out for a second, so Jack only catches part of what Shitty says next.

“—o for it? I mean, have you talked to your mom?”

Jack shakes his head. “There’s not a lot to say right now. She liked my idea to do some improvements on the Haus.”

Shitty rolls his eyes. “Jack. I’m fucking trying to talk to you seriously, here. I don’t care how you couch this. It doesn’t matter how little I’ve told the guys. What you are doing, bro, in the eyes of everyone who knows you and Bitty the best of just about anyone on this fucking planet, _including both of your parents_ , is effectively declaring your intentions.” Shitty sighs gustily. “Is that what you want to do? Because there’s no motherfucking takebacks. You may stay in the closet as far as your public image is concerned, but once this is done, with regard to your private life, you will be _out_.”

Jack bites his lower lip hard, and finally forces himself to look at Shitty again. “I know.”

Shitty nods. “And you want this.”

Jack nods back. “I do.”

A smile creeps around the edges of Shitty’s moustache. “With Bitty.”

Nervous heat flashes through Jack, and he can’t help but grin. “Yeah. With Eric Bittle.”

Shitty raises an eyebrow. “You’re sure.”

“Shitty,” Jack replies, unable to keep his voice from wavering a little, “I’m as sure about this as I am about hockey.”

Shitty blinks twice, then rubs both eyes fiercely. “Fuck, Jack, I can’t take this level of happiness, brah, you’re killing me, here.”

“Well,” Jack says, marveling at his own ability to chirp even at a time like this. Four years ago, he was never so easy with anyone, not even Kenny. “He could hate it and be mortally offended.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Shitty replies, deadpan. “He could also declare a moratorium on baking until graduation to focus on hockey and his grades. Anything’s possible.”

“I mean,” Jack says, his voice wavering as he holds back his laughter, “that would actually do him some good, yeah? Unless he’s planning to major in food studies, he needs to crack the books.” He rubs a considering hand over his chin. “Maybe this was a bad idea, after all.”

Shitty bursts into loud, braying cackles. “ _Va chier_ , you fucking nerd.” His accent is still the worst ever, except for Bittle’s. He sits back and sighs, still grinning. “I fucking love this. I fucking love you, man.”

“Tais-toi, toton,” Jack says, and ends the call.

 

_X_

_In the hospital, after Parse, after the pills—_

_After._

_Jack’s dad pretty much gets to come in whenever he wants, because he has no qualms about abusing the system if it means Jack isn’t alone._

_Jack spends more than one overly long, hot shower letting the water hit his face so no one can tell he’s crying over it. It’s amazing, that his dad wants to be there, that he’s trying. It’s late, and they both know it’s late. But he’s there._

_It’s also a lot for Jack._

_It’s late at night, far past visiting hours, and Jack and his dad are watching the Red Wings playing the Leafs -- the Leafs are losing, surprise. Bob had budged up next to Jack on the hospital bed, and Jack hates it, but doesn’t want to say anything. When he was a kid, he wouldn’t see his dad for days and weeks at a time, and he wasn’t tactile and didn’t hug or say he loved him much, and—_

_It’s a lot for Jack._

_Halfway through the third period, Bob turns to look at Jack, and sighs long and low. “Jacques.”_

_“Oui, papa,” Jack says, and looks at his hands._

_“I—” Bob says, then stops. He sighs again. “You should take some time, after you’re discharged. To consider.” He turns and lifts a hand to squeeze the back of Jack’s neck briefly. “It’s very hard, being in the spotlight, even when there are no problems. No— complications. It’s double- or triple-hard to withstand that kind of scrutiny when you’re— different. Tu comprends?”_

_Jack wants to throw up._

_“Oui, papa. Je comprends.”_

 

_X_

On June 26th, the Supreme Court of the United States declares same-sex marriage is legal in all 50 states. Jack doesn’t hear until he leaves practice that afternoon and checks his phone for texts from Bittle.

Nothing.

He does have like 17 texts from Shitty, all in rainbow text and pictures of stick figures throwing up rainbows, and he doesn’t get it until he checks the rest of the notifications on his phone. His pulse starts buzzing in his fingertips, which is absurd, because he’s Canadian and it’s been legal in Canada _forever_.

It’s not like it changes Jack’s life in any way.

He wants to text Bitty.

He sits on one of the stools at the breakfast bar thing in his kitchen and composes twenty-one separate texts, and deletes them all.

He cooks and eats dinner; then watches an episode of Game of Thrones; then texts Holster which episode he’s completed; then he opens his phone, quickly sends Bittle the little rainbow emoji before he can talk himself out of it, and goes to bed.

Jack wakes up to his phone buzzing incessantly into the pitch black of his bedroom.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes, then squints at his alarm clock as he grabs the phone. 11:23 PM. Fuck, whoever’s calling better have a good—

His phone displays that Spring C picture with the red shorts, a name flashing on the screen. _Eric Bittle_. Jack sits up all the way and swipes to accept the call. “‘Alo? Eric?” Fuck, his accent goes so French when he’s tired.

On the other end, silence, and then a great, heaving sniffle. “Jack?”

Suddenly very awake, Jack draws his knees up under the covers and hunches over them, his phone pressed so tight to his ear it starts to hurt immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry, did I wake you?” Eric’s— _Bittle’s_ —voice is a little muffled, restrained. Jack can hear the faint rustle of fabric in the background. Bittle rushes ahead before Jack can answer. “I’m so sorry, Jack, I know you have practice in the morning, but I tried Shitty and he didn’t answer, and Lardo didn’t answer either so they’re probably together, right? A-and I don’t want to interrupt that, I mean, how inconsiderate—”

“Bittle—”

“—and honestly they’re both amazing friends but I don’t expect them to drop everything whenever I have a problem—”

“Bitty—”

“—but this is kind of a big problem, I mean, this is THE big problem, and I really wasn’t planning to do it until after graduation, so it’s about two years earlier than I intended and—”

The pitch of Eric’s voice is ratcheting higher and higher. Jack’s heart is in his throat. “ERIC.”

There is a long silence, punctuated by a few shaky breaths on both their parts. Finally, “Yes, Jack.”

There’s no amount of deflection that Jack can employ here, no way to avoid addressing the elephant in the room anymore. To do so would hurt Eric more than it would protect Jack’s privacy—and Jack’s realized over the last couple of years that there is almost nothing that he wants to keep private from Eric Bittle anymore. “I need to ask you a couple questions. Okay?”

A loud sniffle. “Okay.”

“Are you in danger? Physically?”

Eric makes a surprised noise. “No?”

Jack nods, then remembers that Eric can’t see him. “Okay. Do you need me to come get you? Tonight? Right now?”

Eric makes another noise, a kind of strangled laugh-sob that makes Jack’s stomach tie in knots. He’s already considering whether or not it’s too late to call Georgia and his coaches when Eric replies, “No, Jack, but I love that you just offered, truly. Thank you.”

A flush of heat rushes through Jack from head to toe. He’d thought Eric was about to say-- To tell him— Quickly, before he can lose his nerve, “I know today was kind of a big deal. Did you come out tonight? To Coach?”

“No, I— _No_ ,” Eric near-hisses, his voice gone low and conspiratorial. “But. He’s really starting to ask a lot of questions about why I’m not calling home about dates with girls, why am I not trying to meet anybody, what’s going on, everybody loves a jock, he met my mama in college, et cetera. And it’s starting to really, like, hurt?”

Eric hiccups over the line, and Jack’s hand clenches in his sheets.

“To lie like that. And the news was all about—well, you know what it’s about, and I already spent my lunch break crying in the bathroom because this is so wonderful and overwhelming, and I didn’t even think it would happen, and. And of course when I went home, Mama was pretty quiet, and then Coach came home, and. You know.”

Eric’s voice thickens and starts to quaver.

“He watches an awful lot of Fox News, you know? And, um, after he went to bed, mama stayed up with me for a bit, and she, uh. She basically said that she loves me a lot, and.” He pauses to blow his nose. “Sorry. Um. That she loves me a lot, and wants me to be happy, and she’s really _worried_ about me? And that, um. Coach loves me too but, and I’m quoting her here, ‘isn’t all that good at understanding people who are different from him.’ And, uh. I feel like she was telling me to keep my light under a bushel, but I’m so— _angry_. And scared. And exhausted?

“The thing that makes me so sad is that my first thought when the news broke is, ‘Oh God, I hope no one congratulates me in public, because I won’t know what to do.’ Even before, ‘Yay I can get married in my hometown.’” Eric sniffles and hiccups through an inhale. “What the fuck, Jack.”

Jack nods again. “Yeah. I get that.”

“You do?”

“Eric. You know I do.” Jack nips at a cuticle, lets the ensuing silence drag.

Finally, “Yeah,” Eric says, voice clogged with tears. “I guess I do.”

 _I want to hold your hand_ , Jack thinks but doesn’t say. _I want to put my arms around you right now_.

“Look, I don’t know if it’ll help, or what, but.” Jack shifts into a cross-legged position that redistributes his weight more evenly on the mattress and puts less pressure on his joints. “I once had a conversation with my therapist that really— changed me. Changed the way I thought.”

Another sniffle from the other end of the line. “Okay?” Eric sounds bewildered.

“She said—”

“She?”

“Yeah?” Jack scratches the back of his head. “So?”

Eric laughs a little, and Jack counts it as a win even though he doesn’t know what he’s laughing about. “I’m not trying to imply anything about female therapists, but you don’t really seem to seek out female friends to talk to, in general, aside from Lardo. And y’all more like…”

“...Sit in companionable silence together?” Jack finishes, finally grasping what Eric’s trying to say. Eric laughs again, stronger and more sure this time.

“Yeah.”

Jack shrugs. “I guess, at the time in my life when I was looking for someone to talk to, this particular person just seemed to get what I was trying to say, you know?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Jack.” Jack can hear the eyeroll in Eric’s voice, and smiles. “Okay. So, you had a conversation with your therapist that changed you?”

Moonlight slants across Jack’s duvet in a pale sliver. He passes his hand through it, watches it trickle over the peaks and valleys of his knuckles. “So, we were talking about stress, and how everyone experiences stress all the time, but every single person who experiences stress reacts to it differently, you know?” He slows the movements of his hand, presses it flat on the bed, bisected by the moonlight. “School creates stress, and work creates stress, and even daily tasks like taking care of yourself create stress, because a healthy amount of stress is— motivational, yeah? Do you follow?”

“Mmm-hm,” Eric hums. He sounds just a little sleepy. Good. Jack lowers his voice just a little, to encourage things in that direction. It’s a hell of a lot better than crying, fuck.

“Okay. Anyway, stress, on a base level, makes you do stuff. Get stuff done. Which is a good thing. But then she said something that I won’t ever forget. She said that it’s when we can’t accomplish goals, when the thing causing stress just builds and builds, and we can’t move past it, that’s when stress turns to _dis_ tress. And then even the normal stress can be too much, can turn to distress that much faster.”

Eric makes a surprised, inquiring noise.

“So,” Jack continues, “there are daily stressors that most people can generally cope with, like, like schoolwork, or interacting with your teammates, or even—” Jack takes a deep breath, lets it out, “—negotiating a relationship with your parents, which can be pretty hard. But when you add in, say, internal and external pressure to excel in a sport, or, say, _staying in the closet when it’s hurting you_ , then—”

“Distress,” Eric says softly.

“Right,” Jack manages, and falls silent.

Eric’s long, slow breath in and gusty exhale into the receiver reverberate in Jack’s ear. “What do you do when you’re distressed, Jack?”

Jack blinks into the dark, then shifts his legs back up to press his eyes against his knees. “I think every hockey fan on the planet knows what I do when I’m genuinely distressed, Eric.”

“I—” Eric starts, then stops.

Jack swallows, bites his lip. “What is it?”

Rushed, “Nothing, I. Thanks, I guess. For answering, for talking to me.” Eric huffs a short laugh. “I think that’s the longest I’ve heard you talk at one time outside of discussing hockey.”

Jack rolls his eyes and flops down onto his side, still holding the phone to his ear. “Shut up.”

Eric’s on a roll now. “No, I mean it! Things are getting pretty serious here!”

Jack presses his smile into his pillow for a second. “Yeah. I guess so.”

 

_X_

Jack can barely drag himself through practice the next morning. The bags under his eyes have their own carry-on luggage. It’s not a good look. The chirps from his teammates about his late night activities are pretty easy to ignore; the concerned looks from the coaches are a little harder to brush off. He tells himself it’s one day, it’s _just one day_ , but it’s hard to move past the building anxiety, especially after revealing so much of himself last night. Deetz tries out a few more nicknames—Jackie (“Ugh, Dietrich, he’s not a _girl_.”); Bimmermann (“False advertising. He drives an Audi.”); and Zebra (“NOPE! Deetz, you are really scraping the bottom of the barrel here.”)—because he never knows when to shut the fuck up, especially when he’s embarrassing himself. He just doubles down. Jack doesn’t even have it in him to chirp.

Still, at mid-morning break, he takes his phone out of his locker and scrolls until he reaches that picture he took of Eric, the day he found his townhouse. He holds his phone close to his chest and lets himself take in every detail of the way the setting sun gilds Eric’s hair, the bright contrast of his profile, the long lines of his slender neck cast in sharp relief.

It’s beautiful. It’s one of the best portraits he’s ever taken.

Jack thinks about how he has that Spring C photo as Eric’s contact photo, so whenever Eric calls or texts him, a picture of Eric and Shitty pops up on his phone and reminds him that he barely has any photos of Eric at all that wouldn’t look really weird popping up on his phone for a casual phone call from a _friend_. Over the past month or so, he’s gone back to the sunset picture over and over, despite the fact that if anyone ever finds him interesting enough to hack his phone, it would be out there.

He brings up the menu thing and selects “Make Contact Photo.”

Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about the little stuff, when he feels like he’s on the precipice of something huge.


	2. Chapter 2

_X_

Eric Bittle  
Today 11:46 AM  
Thank you. Again.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Today 12:27 PM  
Anytime.  
I mean it.  


Eric Bittle  
I know you do.  
I do too.  
:)  


Jack Zimmermann  
:-)

_X_

“Eeyore!” Deetz calls across the parking lot. Jelly crosses his path looking perplexed while McNulty laughs so hard he drops his keys.

Jack turns, halfway to his car. “Huh?”

“On account of your long face 90% of the time, am I right?”

Jack adjusts his duffel on his shoulder. “What’s that got to do with my name, though?”

Deetz shrugs, lifting one hand to scratch at his beard. “Fuck if I know, Zimmermann. I ran out of name-based jokes this afternoon. I’m just trying out general descriptors at this point. See what works.”

Shaking his head and forcibly putting the bygone echo of Parse saying _Zims_ out of his mind, Jack unlocks his Audi and tosses his duffel in the back seat. 

“Just call me Jack for now. Nothing else ever seems to stick.”

_X_

On July 3rd, Ransom and Holster arrive at the Haus and text Jack a bunch of moving pictures of people from tv and movies making crazy, happy faces and dancing. One of them is Kermit the Frog flapping around like he’s being electrocuted—Jack at least knows that one. Jack didn’t even know you could send those in a text. To be honest, Jack isn’t even sure what those are _called_. They’re pretty funny, though, and Jack assumes that this means the guys like the completed renovations. The pictures make him laugh every time he looks at the conversation, and he wonders if he can send pictures from his phone too.

Jack Zimmermann  
Today 5:10 PM  
Hey.  


Eric Bittle  
Hey!! What’s up?  


Jack Zimmermann  
This is a dumb question  
probably.  


Eric Bittle  
I doubt that.  


Jack Zimmermann  
No, it really is.  


Eric Bittle  
Jack. There are no dumb  
questions.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Okay.  
What are the moving picture  
things called?  


Eric Bittle  
…?  


Jack Zimmermann  
On the internet?  
Like, Rans and Holster sent  
me a moving picture in a  
text.  


Eric Bittle  
I’m sorry, Jack, I’m not  
following. Can you  
forward the text to me?  


Jack Zimmermann  
...How do I do that?  


Eric Bittle  
Bless your heart.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Shut up.

_X_

Jack dreams.

He’s had this dream before.

_The ice at Faber is perfect, more like glass than any Zamboni could make it. Jack’s ears are full of the rhythmic susurration of his skates as he warms up, and he stares at the steady back-and-forth pattern of his feet on the perfect ice._

_He loves being the first person to touch the ice. He loves messing it up, leaving his mark, so people know he was there._

_The cool air brushes past Jack’s cheeks, and he slowly realizes that he’s not the only person in the building—that he is now in fact tracing over someone else’s curlicue scratches in the ice, and he can hear the kshhhh-kshhhh-ksh-ksh-CRACKGRINDSCRAPE of a jump just behind him, and he can’t even turn before the impact of the impossible flying check drives him into the boards, winding him unexpectedly. His cheek presses against the plexiglass, and he’s pinned, fighting to suck in air._

_The touch of a hand burns through his jeans at his hip, and Jack realizes he’s not wearing any protective gear. Another hand gathers Jack’s t-shirt into a tight wad at the small of his back (he’s not cold, how is he not cold, in fact he’s burning up), and he closes his eyes against the sight of his shuddering breath fogging up the plexiglass._

_He’s manhandled, turning (allowing himself to be turned) to see Eric—a sight for sore eyes, all flushed cheeks and red-bitten lips and that sleeveless shirt and skinny shorts—gliding forward on figure skates until they’re pressed together chest-to chest. The boards and glass are cold against Jack’s back, and he can’t suppress a shudder as Eric’s clever hands slide up his torso slowly to hook around his neck, his own broad palms curving over Eric’s slim hips. He hears the grind of Eric’s toe picks in the ice as he stretches one or two sinuous inches taller, hears his own voice, near unrecognizable, respond to the drag of Eric’s body against his from knee to chest with a breathy moan._

_“Well?” Eric says, so close his breath is hitting Jack’s lips._

_Jack is panting, speechless with want._

_Eric smiles, knowing and sure, and when he speaks again, his mouth brushes Jack’s._

_“Check me.”_

Jack wakes, writhing, twisted up in his sheets. It only takes a scant half-dozen frantic pulls at his dick, slick and dripping wet, sensitive head popped free of the foreskin, for him to come shouting into his pillow.

He spends any time off the ice that day in a flushed daze, like he always does when he dreams about Eric, which is more and more often. Deetz even manages to trip him up a couple times, until McNulty tells him to knock it the fuck off—because who wants to tell management that Zimmermann’s injured himself because Deetz was fucking around in the locker room? 

Jack forces himself to laugh it off, then takes a moment to hide his face in his locker, pressing his hot forehead against the cool metal shelf, just breathing.

He has to do something. Soon.

_X_

“Have you had time to go out a little? Relax? Make a few friends?”

Jack’s mum’s voice is a soft murmur, pitched low to accommodate Jack’s dad snoring behind her on the couch. It’s a pretty rare thing for Bad Bob Zimmermann to have a free afternoon to snooze on the couch like a normal middle aged guy, and neither Jack nor Alicia want to disturb him.

Jack shrugs, and looks away from his laptop screen for a few seconds. “It’s hard to find the energy after practice, you know?” He lifts a hand to nip at his cuticle, and then makes himself drop it back to his lap.

Alicia smiles, her eyes warm but worried. “ _Mon ange_.” 

Jack’s cheeks burn. “Mama, come on.”

“Fine! Fine,” Alicia replies on a sigh. “So, how are your friends from school? How is your plan to update the Haus going?”

Lip caught between his teeth, Jack blows a breath out his nose. “Good. Everything’s going real good. I can send you some pictures if you like.”

“Oh, your father and I would love that.”

“Y-you told him?”

Alicia’s brow furrows, and her smile grows confused. “Of course! He loved to hear that you’re giving back to the team! It’s so thoughtful and generous of you, to donate to Samwell like that. We’re both so proud.” 

She leans closer to try and catch his eye as best she can within the limits of Skype. “I know it’s not easy for you to talk about these things, but you have to know that we are so happy to see you coming out of your shell, Jack. Going to Samwell was a really great decision, and we’re so glad you chose that school in particular.” She sits back and gestures wide with her hands while Jack fumbles to come up with a response that isn’t bursting into happy tears. “Look at the wonderful friends you’ve made. I feel like you’ll know Shitty and that lovely Bittle boy for the rest of your life, truly.”

Jack swallows. God, his mouth has gone _so dry_. “I hope so.” 

He thinks back to when he was very small, when his dad was gone more often than not, and it was just him and Mama. He has all these half-formed, dreamy memories of pee-wee hockey practice, when it was more about not falling over than about scoring goals, and Mama there on the ice with him. He remembers curling up with her on the couch and telling her all his secrets, not knowing that a child’s secrets are nothing compared to the delicate subterfuge he engages in every day as an adult. He can almost taste the fresh-baked madeleines they used to buy together from the bakery down the street from their condo in Montréal, before his parents moved them out of the city proper and into a gated subdivision. There are so many instances from Jack’s childhood where he trusted his Mama implicitly, where he knew that she would keep him safe and happy.

He wonders when it was that he stopped telling her everything. He can’t remember when that changed.

Jack realizes he’s been quiet for longer than he intended, and his mum is just looking at him as his father continues snoring in the background. He clears his throat. “Mama?”

“ _Oui, Jacques_.”

“ _Je t’aime_.”

Her smile is so beautiful. Jack likes to think he inherited that smile, on his good days. “ _Je t’aime aussi, mon ange._ ”

Jack breathes in, breathes out. 

“I need to talk to you and Dad about something.” He tries to smile, but is afraid it comes off as more of a grimace. “It’s important.”

Alicia’s big, radiant smile fades to something a little more tentative, a little more knowing. “Okay. I’ll wake him up.”

Jack nods. “Okay.”

_X_

After, Jack lies in his bed, pressing a cold washcloth to his swollen eyelids.

His phone buzzes and buzzes in his pocket.

Dad  
Today 7:14 PM  
I never thought I’d have to  
say this to you because I  
thought it was a given.  
There is nothing in this world  
that could make myself and  
your mama love you any  
less.  
I’m worried and concerned  
though.  
Not for the reasons you may  
think.  
This will be very difficult to  
get through, Jacques.  
We will be here for you but  
you need to also take care  
of yourself.

His phone buzzes again.

Eric Bittle  
Today 7:15 PM  
All packed up and ready to  
go!  
So happy to be headed back  
to MA tomorrow.

Jack switches back and forth between the two conversations, and slowly taps out replies to both.

_X_

Jack unlocks his phone after practice the next day to find a link in the group chat. He clicks it, and it redirects to a six-second Vine of Eric and Lardo doing a perfectly choreographed version of the Single Ladies dance in the Logan Terminal B baggage claim area while the song plays tinnily on the P.A. system.

Jack lets the video loop for a long time, then goes to meet with Georgia.

_X_

Eric Bittle  
Today 2:10 PM  
Boston is so lovely.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Yeah, I like it.  


Eric Bittle  
Also I can confirm that Shitty and  
Lardo are the actual cutest  
couple ever to exist.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Yeah?  


Eric Bittle  
Don’t tell me that Shitty hasn’t  
talked to you about it?  


Jack Zimmermann  
Only a little. I think he’s kind of  
enjoying keeping it to himself  
for once.  


Eric Bittle  
Well I’m sure you’ll see for  
yourself soon enough.  


Jack Zimmermann  
I don’t really have any plans  
to come to Samwell.  


Eric Bittle  
No? Not even to visit now that  
everyone’s coming back?  


Jack Zimmermann  
Schedule’s pretty tight here.  


Eric Bittle  
Oh. Okay.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Doesn’t stop people from  
coming to Providence  
instead though.  


Eric Bittle  
Yeah?  


Jack Zimmermann  
Yeah.  


Eric Bittle  
I’ve heard Providence is nice.  


Jack Zimmermann  
It is.  


Eric Bittle  
Maybe I should make the trip  
sometime.  


Jack Zimmermann  
Maybe you should.  


Eric Bittle  
:)  


Jack Zimmermann  
:-)

_X_

Jack has meetings for the rest of the day: with the PR people, with the owners, with the coaches, with his team captain Joe McNulty. He knows, by the end of the day, how lucky he was to choose the Falconers. Not one person is anything less than 100% professional with him. No one says anything to him about keeping quiet or hiding who he is. Every conversation focuses on logistics and on formulating a solid plan to ensure that Jack and the PR team have control of the timing and volume of information that’s going to get out, so that once the season starts in October, as much media focus as possible will be on the _team_ rather than one of its players.

The first thing they do is set up a verified Twitter account for Jack.

The first thing Jack does is navigate to Eric’s account and click “Follow.”

Jack spends a stupid amount of time composing his first tweet with Georgia leaning over his shoulder, but in the end he guesses it’s important to begin as you mean to go on.

  
**Jack Zimmermann** @jackdequebec · 2m  
Hi. I’m Jack.

_X_

**Eric Bittle** favorited your Tweet

_X_

“So—um.” Jack falters, licks his lips, takes a couple breaths, and forces himself to look his teammates in the eye. _Keep it simple, be sincere, be firm_ , Georgia had advised, and he’s so grateful for her presence in his life. He could never have made it through even just this without her support, much less what’s to come.

“I wanted to talk to you all about this first, because we’re a team. Like I said, once I’m out, I’m going to try and just live my life, because I don’t want the attention. I don’t want to be a spokesperson or anything. I just want to play hockey. But I also don’t plan on hiding who I am anymore. 

“If someone asks, I’ll tell.”

_X_

It goes better than he had imagined—to be fair, his imagination has a tendency to catastrophize, so not being beaten to death with his own stick feels like a victory in the moment. About half the guys in the room nod and go back to getting ready for practice, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was one of the scariest things Jack’s ever done. Antonov and Breslin, the D-Men, both turn their backs, but not before he can see the respective disgusted and uncomfortable looks on their faces. Jack bites his lip and turns to his own locker.

Georgia walks up and pats him on the shoulder. “No worries. You did good.”

Jack nods, pulls his elbow pads out, and wishes he could text Eric before practice but decides not to dawdle.

On the ice, Jack takes a precious few seconds to breathe and ground himself before heading to the center. Deetz skates up to flank him along with Jelinek, the other wingman, before getting in position.

“Got your back, Zimmermann,” Jelly says in his flat Czech-accented monotone and bumps shoulders with him before moving away.

Deetz lingers while the defensive line gets its shit together. “So. Who’s the lucky guy?”

Jack blinks, and presses his lips together. His hands flex on the handle of his stick. 

“What makes you think there’s a guy?” he replies in an undertone.

Deetz rolls his eyes. “You kidding? I see you checking your phone for texts on breaks. You’re not texting _Bad Bob_ with that doof look on your face, Invader Zim.” He immediately makes a face as Jack chokes through a surprised laugh. “Aw man, that one doesn’t really fit either, huh?”

“Nope. But you’re getting warmer,” Jack says, biting back a grin and adjusting his helmet.

“We’ll nickname you yet, rookie,” Deetz laughs as he skates away.

_X_

Two days later, Jack follows the rest of the team into the locker room, yawning a little and thinking fondly about the plain greek yogurt he has in his fridge at home for quick, prep-free protein. Maybe he’ll put a drop of honey and some blueberries on it. That sounds good. He stows his helmet and wonders idly if there’s a way to put yogurt in a pie.

He’ll have to ask Eric.

By the time he gets out of the shower, it’s later than he wanted, and he rushes to get dressed. His jeans are folded on the shelf of his locker, and when he picks them up, he realizes that he left his phone in his back pocket.

It’s buzzing.

Just as he pulls it out, it stops. He blinks and flips it upright in his hand, and before he can hit the home button to see who called, it starts buzzing again.

Shitty.

Jack slides his thumb across the screen to answer. “Hello?”

“DUDE!” Shitty’s voice comes through so loud that Jelly and Breslin both glance over with eyebrows raised. Jack swears under his breath and tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear while he gets dressed in a rush. 

“Shitty, if you’re going to shout my ear off, I’m going to have to call you back. I’m in the locker room.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Shitty hisses. “Jack. Dude. The Haus.”

Jack freezes with one foot in the air and a sock in his hand. “What about the Haus? Is everything okay?”

“Okay?!” And now Shitty’s shouting again. Jack winces and closes one eye, almost losing his balance as he finally puts the sock on. 

“ _Okay_. Jack wants to know if the Haus is OKAY, GUYS.” This is followed by what sounds like a drunken horde of Vikings caterwauling in the direction of Shitty’s phone, then Shitty abruptly hangs up on him.

Alarmed, Jack rushes through getting the rest of his gear together, waving Deetz and Jelly away, and is just getting into his car when the Skype video request comes through. He accepts, and is immediately assaulted by the view up Shitty’s nostrils.

“—shut up, _shut up guys I’m doing it_ , I know how to do fucking Skype on an iPad, Chowder, what the— JACK!” 

Shitty pulls back and Jack can see the Haus living room. Shitty’s eyes are bloodshot all to hell, and huge. His tragically short hair is all messed up on one side, and looks vaguely sticky. Behind him, Chowder is waving enthusiastically, grinning, and jumping up and down, and Jack can see the top of Lardo’s hair against Shitty’s chest but that’s it. Dex and Nursey pop into view for a second, but Shitty starts moving the iPad all around, and Jack can’t see much.

“Hey, guys, what’s going on?” Jack starts his car and puts the A/C on high. He has a feeling he’s gonna be sitting here for a while and it’s fucking roasting outside as usual. “Shitty, I thought you were in Boston? Is everything okay?”

Shitty rights the iPad again, and it looks like he’s holding the thing with both hands. His face is so red and his expression is so frantic—Jack is honestly feeling concerned that he’s about to have a stroke. Jack examines the background, trying to see where Eric is, but he can’t see him. “Jack. Jack.” To Jack’s alarm, Shitty looks like he’s tearing up. “The Haus is fucking beautiful, man. It. It looks like a place where people live, I don’t understand it at all but I love you, man.”

“Okay, well, thanks, I guess?” Jack replies, holding his phone a little closer. “Shitty, are you okay? Guys, is he okay?”

There’s a scuffle, and Ransom comes on the screen. He, at least, looks fairly sane. “He’s gonna be fine, Jack. Bitty drove them down here in Lardo’s car, and since he didn’t have to drive, Shitty decided to eat part of a weed gummy, and he ate too much.”

In the background, Jack can hear Lardo. “Dude, I told him to only eat the ear of the bear and see how he felt! Those things are potent! I can’t believe you ate the whole head, who do you think you are, Tommy Chong?” 

“Geez,” Jack sighs, “keep an eye on him, okay? I remember when he had like four more pot brownies than he should have at a party in our Frog year, and tried to steal the Zamboni so the team could have an impromptu shinny at the Haus. In September.” 

Ransom laughs, and then Holster bounces into view beside him.

“Hey, Jack,” Holster says, and he also looks a little urgent. “This is fun and all, but before we talk about anything else, we have to tell you something.”

A knot starts to form right around Jack’s sternum. “Okay?” He swallows. “Is Bittle there?”

Rans and Holster look at each other, and then look back at Jack. “He was,” Ransom says, reluctant. 

Holster nods, and takes the iPad. The background shifts; he’s walking. “Dude, I know you were involved with the reno and everything, but, like, I don’t think anyone realized how amazing it would turn out. I don’t think _you_ realize how amazing it turned out.” Holster’s hand briefly blocks the camera, and then the view shifts—he must be switching the views to the back camera. 

Jack blinks.

His mouth drops open.

“ _Mon ostie de saint-sacrament de câlice de crisse_ ,” he murmurs.

There is no way that’s the same kitchen. 

The layout is totally different. The new oven that they bought in May has been worked seamlessly into a large central island, covered in butcher block and extending outwards on one long side to accommodate several stools. The sink is still under the window, but it’s a farmhouse sink, and along the side is a dishwasher. The linoleum floors—scuffed, stained, and faded—have been pulled up to reveal the original hardwood, which has been refinished. Jack had insisted that they refinish as many rooms as possible, and even offered to pay more to make sure that what Shitty referred to as “the Great Multiple Splinter Tragedy of 2014” would never occur again. 

Holster swings the iPad around and now Jack can see all the new bright white cabinets—he can also see that Chowder took his assignment of painting chalkboard paint on the inset of each upper cabinet door very seriously. It looks just like Jack hoped it would. Holster opens one, on which is written “Groceries” in chalk with a list of beer and various beef jerky brands underneath, to reveal plates and cups. He tips the iPad upwards, and Jack can see, on the top two shelves, a massive assortment of baking accoutrements. 

“Fuck,” Jack says under his breath, and Holster immediately switches the camera back, holding up one finger, and fixing Jack in place with a truly spine-tingling glare over the top of his glasses. He walks over to another part of the kitchen, and Jack can hear the sound of a door opening. 

The camera switches back, just as Shitty bellows in the background, “ _Jacques Laurent Zimmermann, you radiant, sleek, self-effacing snow leopard! IS THIS A NEW COUCH?_ ” 

Jack gasps, and then starts to laugh. 

The old, rarely used utility closet off the kitchen has been transformed into a pantry. There are sturdy shelves along each wall, and there are, _bon dieu_ , so many pots and pans and whatnots along one side, Jack can hardly believe it. Most of the rest of the shelves are filled with dried beans and pastas and all kinds of ingredients, but along the back is a big, red, 6-quart stand mixer and what looks like every kind of flour, yeast, sugar, baking chocolate—for fuck’s sake, Jack isn’t even sure what all of that _is_. As soon as he got word that the pantry was finished, he didn’t even ask for a picture. He just threw a bunch of money at Nursey and Dex and told them to stock it and to keep quiet about it. 

Holster switches the camera back again, and looks at Jack, eyebrows at his hairline. “So.” 

“Uh,” Jack replies weakly, “so?” 

“So, you’d better get back to your place.” 

“Huh?” Jack says, intelligently. 

“You wanna know why?” 

Jack’s heart starts to pound. “Holster, where’s Bittle?” 

Holster smiles and narrows his eyes. “I think we should probably end this call, and you should get on the road.” 

“Holster. Where’s Bittle.” Jack reaches across his body and yanks on his seatbelt. 

“Oh, Bitty? Bittle?” Holster blows out a breath and makes an overexaggerated thinky face. “Eric Bittle. I think…” 

“ _Holster!_ ” 

“Eric Bittle took one look at what you did for him and stole Lardo’s car. I’m thinking he should be at your place in about… now.” 

“ _GO GET ‘IM ZIMMERMANN!_ ” Shitty screams, then—“Oh god, I’m gonna barf.” 

_X_

Jack doesn’t wreck his Q5 on the way home, but there are a couple close calls.

_X_

Eric isn’t there.

Jack stands on the stoop of his townhouse for a stupidly long time, looking up and down the sidewalk before he trudges back to his car for his gear. He lives in a very nice part of Providence, but it would be stupid to leave hockey paraphernalia with ZIMMERMANN all over it sitting in plain sight in the trunk of his hatchback. 

Should he call Eric? Presumably he’s driving right now. Holster implied that he was upset or at least emotional, so talking on the phone while driving and emotional seems like a recipe for disaster. Jack dumps a load of laundry into the washer and leans against it as it fills, chewing his lip.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now? It’s late afternoon, he’s _starving_ , and he’s waiting for someone who might not even show up.

Jack slaps his hand against the washing machine. He can remedy one thing at least. He walks to the kitchen and starts to prepare a snack, pulling yogurt and fruit out of the fridge to tide him over until he can get something more substantial going—and the doorbell rings.

He freezes, the hand holding the yogurt suspended mid-air.

The doorbell rings again and is quickly followed by a frantic knock.

Jack jumps and skitters to the foyer.

The knock comes again, louder and even more insistent.

He takes three deep breaths and opens the door.

Eric Bittle, flushed, breathing unsteadily, luminous in the afternoon light slanting through the maples outside Jack’s place, pauses with his hand still raised to knock and stares at Jack, his dark eyes near-crazed; stares at the tub of yogurt in Jack’s hand; slowly lowers his own hand to his side. 

“You know,” Eric says, the unique timbre of his voice zinging through Jack from head to toe, and _oh_ , Jack thinks, Skype will _never_ be enough to bridge the gap. To see him, to hear him in person after weeks and weeks—it’s sensory overload.

“You know,” Eric repeats, “it really should be pouring rain right now.”

Jack blinks. “...Yeah?”

Eric nods, and moves forward a half-step. “Yeah, it’s like. Dramatic moments should always be accompanied by at least a well-timed thunderclap. I can’t believe the weather is not following suit.”

Distantly, Jack hears the tub of yogurt creak in his hand. “Well, we can’t all be a Brontë hero. Besides, how would that even work? Microclimates? Mini tornados whenever the couple next door has a fight?”

Eric mouths _Brontë hero_ with a pinched look on his face, then shakes his head. “Oh my god, who _are_ you? Honey, I don’t even know how you’re thinking clearly enough to debate the point with me right now, but I’ve got other fish to fry.”

Jack’s heart skips a beat at the term of endearment. “Oh?”

Eric takes another step closer; he’s on the threshold now, his upturned gaze flickering all over Jack’s face. 

“Yeah. Like.” He swallows, and when he continues, his voice has gone all rough. “First of all. How in the hell are you supposed to find parking in this neighborhood? I drove in circles for forty-five minutes.” 

Eric’s eyes seem to catch on Jack’s mouth and linger there. Jack feels a shiver starting to work its way up from the base of his spine.

“Um. I have two parking spots in the back,” Jack says, dizzy with proximity. “You can- you can move the car. Into the empty one.” 

Eric nods, and he’s right in Jack’s space now, one hand gripping the hem of Jack’s t-shirt at his hip. “In a minute. Are you gonna invite me in?”

With his free hand, Jack grabs Eric’s wrist and pulls him bodily in the door, kicking it shut. Eric twists his wrist out of Jack’s grip, knocking the yogurt out of Jack’s hand, and before Jack can react beyond a shaky gasp, Eric is pressing their mouths together fiercely, his whole body straining upward, both arms looping around Jack’s neck to pull him closer. Jack stumbles back half a step, and Eric falters with a tiny broken sound. Desperate already, Jack murmurs, “No, I—” and presses forward until Eric shuffles backwards into the closed door, and Eric’s mouth is soft and hot and—

 _Oh_.

Jack tilts his head to press closer, to kiss him harder, to say the things he's so terrible at saying, and he opens his mouth a bit, and Eric's tongue is—it's, it's, it's— 

Jack tears himself away from Eric's mouth to press a line of kisses along his ruddy pink cheek, ducks low to nip at his Adam's apple. 

"S-so what you're saying is you're glad I have an extra parking spot." He pulls back to grin. 

Eric looks up at Jack, eyes hot and breath coming in short pants. Jack’s hands settle at Eric’s waist and hip, fitting as if they were made for the purpose of holding him close. Eric’s arms tighten around Jack’s neck, and Jack tips his head down to rest their foreheads together, his grin fading to a soft smile. 

“Jack,” Eric says. Their lips brush. Jack’s hands clench and Eric inhales sharply.

“Yeah?” Jack replies, his eyes slipping closed.

“I still have a bone to pick with you,” Eric says, low. There’s laughter in his voice, but also something else. Something like lust.

Jack’s eyes flutter open, and he smiles again. He can't _stop_ smiling. Moving fast, he grabs Eric by the back of the thighs and lifts him up against the door; wraps Eric’s legs around his waist, and rolls their hips together; nips Eric’s lower lip as Eric tips his head back against the door with a short moan; hisses out some kind of mangled, inarticulate _franglais_ profanity that would normally embarrass him. 

“Really?” Jack laughs, shaky with desire, with joy. “You have a bone to pick with me, Bittle?” He shifts his hips again, and Eric’s eyes roll back in his head briefly before he laughs and swats Jack on the back of the head gently, pecking little kisses against Jack’s lips. 

“Oh my god, Jack Zimmermann, chirping at a time like this?” Eric’s grip on Jack’s neck and shoulders shifts, and he executes a sinuous full-body grind that shocks a loud groan out of Jack. “First you manhandle me, and then you chirp me. Seems like mixed signals,” Eric says, his voice wavering.

“Maybe you’re right,” Jack says, tilting his head to press his mouth to the notch between Eric’s collarbones that’s been driving him crazy for literally two years. “Maybe I should be more clear. Take you out for coffee sometime.” He lifts up to look him in the eye, one eyebrow raised pointedly. “Or froyo.”

Eric’s eyes go wide, focused and dark, his expression bordering on distress. His hands twist in Jack’s hair, and with unsteady gasps they’re kissing again, frantic and sloppy, his tongue in Jack’s mouth assertive and confident in a way Jack never expected. Shifting his hold on Eric’s thighs to just under his ass, Jack steps back from the door and turns, walking them to the living room and sitting on the couch. 

“Oof,” Eric mutters, laughing against Jack’s lips and shifting so that he’s not so much wrapped around Jack like an octopus, but straddling him instead. Their kisses slow, grow languid, and Jack feels his pulse in every scorching millimetre of where they’re pressed together tight. He slips one cautious hand up the back of Eric’s shirt, trails light fingers up his spine. Eric arches, breaks the kiss to pant at the ceiling, and then his hands are gripping the short hair behind Jack’s ears and he’s pressing their lips together, once, twice, quick and hard. Jack’s lips feel swollen and tender already. It’s been _so long_.

Helpless, Jack grazes his hands up and down Eric’s thighs, unable to stop his fingertips from slipping under the hem of his wonderfully short shorts. Eric shudders, pupils blown, spreads his legs just that much wider and grinds down into Jack’s lap. Jack writhes under him, and Eric’s mouth is insistent at his pulse. 

Jack bites his lip, his eyes screwed shut, forces himself to speak. “Is this okay? I. You just got here and I need to. To be sure.” He opens his eyes to squint at Eric, who has sat back on his heels looking stunned. “We’re moving quickly. Is it okay?”

Eric’s mouth does this strange, twisty thing and then he’s kissing Jack again, soft and so tender that Jack can hardly breathe. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” Jack says, his tentative smile brushing Eric’s.

Eric’s eyes narrow, and his fingers clench in Jack’s t-shirt. “Jack Zimmermann, if you don’t put your hands back on me right now, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

A short laugh bubbles out of Jack and he takes Eric at his word; skims him out of his v-neck to brush kisses over his sternum; revels in the feeling of fine blond chest hair catching on his lips as he moves to catch one taut nipple in his mouth. Eric jumps, and shivers. Then, Jack’s t-shirt is twisting in Eric’s hands and he has to pull it off or lose it forever. He presses one hand to the small of Eric’s back and with the other grips his thigh ( _god, fuck, the shift of muscles in Jack’s hand, he wants to **lick** every inch of him_ ) and moves them again, Eric splayed under him, pressed to the couch cushions. 

Jack sits back on his heels and grabs Eric’s left shoe and unties the laces of his grey Converse carefully and frankly a little slower than he needs to. He sets the shoe on the floor, then slowly peels off Eric’s sock and drops it, following with the right. He grins, and brushes his mouth against Eric’s ankle; even his _toes_ are little and cute. When he’s finished, he hazards a glance at Eric through his eyelashes.

Eric’s got both arms flung above his head, his hands tangling his own hair beyond repair. His face, neck, and torso are blotchy pink, and he’s shivering, eyes shut. Jack can see the outline of his dick faintly throbbing in time with his pulse, ruining the line of those outrageous fucking red shorts, and has to press the heel of his hand to the base of his own dick, breathing hard through his nose. 

“Jesus Christ, Eric, do you have any idea—” 

Eric blinks, and he looks poleaxed. “Huh?” 

Jack lifts one of his legs and nips at his ankle. “I—” He swallows, bends to smudge soft, clinging kisses to his shin, his knee, his inner thigh, then settles his torso low in between his legs. 

Jack wisely doesn’t make any comments about bruising and Georgia peaches when he sucks a mark onto Eric’s hipbone and it immediately blooms bright purple-red. He moans, his voice deeper than Jack's ever heard it, and Jack has to fight not to rub himself off on the couch. Sweat prickles at the small of his back, and his hands slide up Eric's ribs and back down his stomach to his waistband. "May I?"

Eric arches his back, flexes his hips like he just can’t help but move, and says, “Yes. Oh god, Jack, _please yes_.”

The tiny red shorts are gone almost as soon as Jack touches them, they’re so hilariously, borderline illegally minuscule. He immediately sucks the head of Eric’s dick, still in his briefs, into his mouth, tonguing at the wet spot with a low groan that surprises even him. He’s been so focused on hockey, on his career, on his _emotions_ , that he forgot how much he missed the feeling of a dick in his mouth. The fact that it’s Eric Bittle’s dick that he’s feeling, Eric Bittle’s precome that he’s tasting, is almost enough to make Jack come in his pants right there in his living room. 

Eric shouts, curling up to fist a hand tightly in Jack’s hair. Jack uses Eric’s brief upward momentum to move up and steal a quick kiss and then hooks Eric’s legs over his shoulders, licking and nipping at the hard outline of his dick from root to tip. His fingertips trail against the elastic edge of the briefs, and Jack asks again, “May I?”

Chest heaving, mouth bitten red and shiny, Eric lifts his head to glare. “ _Jack_.”

The briefs go somewhere. Jack has no idea _where_ , but they’re definitely somewhere in the living room, that’s for sure. Probably. As soon as they’re gone, Eric grabs Jack and hauls him back on top of him, kissing Jack desperately, clever hands roving over his chest, his waist, his ass. Jack can feel his boxer briefs going damp with sweat and precome; the drag of his sweatpants between their dicks is torture. Eric’s dick is so hard that Jack’s almost afraid to touch him for fear he’ll come instantly. _Almost_.

Jack gets one hand wrapped around the base of Eric’s dick and takes the head into his mouth again, inhaling deep through his nose at the salty, bittersweet taste of skin and sweat and _Eric_ unimpeded by cotton. He bobs his head down, then up, tongue pressing along the length of him, and Eric lifts off the cushions in another graceful arch, babbling. 

“Fuck! Jack, oh my god, oh my _god_ —”

Jack pulls off with a faint _pop_ , and drags his mouth against the sensitive skin just under the head. “There you are,” he rasps, too turned on to be embarrassed that his pronunciation is suffering from extreme distraction.

“Huh?”

Laughing, Jack dips his head and presses a long kiss to the crease of Eric’s thigh, his nose brushing against fine blond hair, his hand slowly jerking Eric’s dick. “You’re so quiet. I thought maybe you’d talk the whole time.”

Eric inhales sharply, thrusting up into Jack’s hand, and moans brokenly. “Y-you thought about me? Like this?”

“No, Bittle.” Jack sucks another mark into Eric’s other hip, bites the mark gently. His thumb circles the tip of Eric’s dick, catching gently at the slit. Eric moans again, his heel thumping on Jack’s back. “I’m only doing this for free pie.”

He goes down again, takes him deeper, starts to build a rhythm. _It really is like riding a bike_ , Jack thinks inanely, and Eric is making these sounds, and they’re moving together so well. It reminds Jack of being on the ice with him the few times they were on the same line, that near-perfect, exhilarating synchronicity that they achieved. Eric’s hands caress Jack’s hair, his cheek, and Jack can feel his thighs start to shake as he takes him as deep as he can. 

“Jack,” he says, shaky, “Jack, Jack, I’m. Jack, I’m. I can’t, I—” 

Jack takes his free hand off Eric’s hip and grabs his hand, presses it to the back of his own head, holds it there until Eric gets the picture, his fingers twisting and pulling in Jack’s hair, and _keeps going_. 

Eric shouts, and his dick gets impossibly harder in Jack’s mouth, and then he’s coming, loud and long, his hips stuttering through half a dozen surprisingly powerful thrusts. Jack swallows everything he can manage, groaning low, his jaw sore and his dick throbbing in his sweatpants. Eric’s thrusts slow, then stop. Jack pulls off, wipes off a stray bit of come that dripped out of the corner of his mouth and licks it off his hand. Eric whines, overstimulated, his eyes closing, his hand petting the crown of Jack’s head.

“Oh my. God. Holy. Shit.” 

Eric’s eyes slit open as Jack works his way up his torso, licking the trail of hair that leads up to his bellybutton, kissing his abs, his pecs, his nipples, his neck, anywhere he can reach. Eric’s still panting, still coming down as he wraps both arms and legs around Jack again, kissing him, tongue pushing slowly in to taste himself in Jack’s mouth. His hands press down the length of Jack’s back, then dip into his sweatpants, digging into the curve of his ass over his boxer briefs. Eric breaks the kiss to smile up at Jack hazily, his eyes knowing. 

“May I?”

Jack nods, then thinks better and says, “ _Please_ ,” and Eric’s hands are everywhere. His sweatpants are pushed down, along with his briefs, and Eric’s hand wraps around his dick. 

Jack bites back a sob of relief, it feels _so good_. “Won’t take long,” he says, unable to stop his hips from moving.

Eric bites his lip, looking down between them, his brow furrowed in concentration. He starts to stroke up and down, twisting his wrist a little at the head to make Jack’s foreskin slide tantalizingly back and forth. Jack whites out for a second and bites at Eric’s collarbone to muffle his shout. Eric shifts his grip and starts to move in earnest. He’s so— 

“You’re so _good_ at this,” Jack says, kissing him and thrusting into his hand. He can feel the orgasm building already in the tightness of his stomach, in the tingling of his balls. Jack wants to feel what it’s like to have his dick in Eric’s mouth, wants to go down on him again, wants to kiss up and down his spine, wants to fuck him. Wants to be fucked.

Eric smiles against Jack’s mouth and pulls back a few millimetres to look at him, all wonder and surprised joy, his hands still moving, still spinning Jack higher and higher. 

“Yes.” Eric’s eyes flicker back and forth, impossibly tender and warm, and Jack realizes belatedly that he said all that out loud. “Good,” he says, and kisses the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I’m not done with you yet.” 

Jack drops his head down to Eric’s shoulder, mouths his collarbone again, gives in to the feeling of Eric Bittle wrapped around him, Eric Bittle’s hands on him, Eric Bittle saying _yes_ , and he lets out an unstoppable moan, and comes.

When he comes to, it’s to Eric giggling breathily. “Jack,” he says. “Honey, you’re absolutely squishing me.”

“ _Marde_ ,” Jack says, and shifts them so they’re curled on their sides facing each other, wincing at the way his come has stuck them together all down their torsos. He grabs his t-shirt from the floor to wipe off most of the mess. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Eric replies, then blinks and darts forward to kiss him warmly, lingering. “It’s more than all right, actually.”

Jack smiles and kisses him back, then pulls back a few centimetres to just look at him for a moment. He lifts a hand to brush Eric’s bangs to the side, cups Eric’s cheek. 

“Hi. I don’t think I said earlier. It’s good to see you.”

The fading flush on Eric’s cheeks deepens and spreads down his neck, over his chest and almost reaching his stomach. He puts his hand over Jack’s and grins, soft and unfocused and happy, his gaze darting all over Jack’s face. 

“Hi. I have to say, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Jack swallows thickly. “I have to tell you something.”

Eric blinks, slow. “Go on.”

“I have to tell you a lot of things,” Jack whispers.

Eric swallows visibly, and darts forward to press a warm, affectionate kiss to Jack’s cheek. “I hope you know by now that you can tell me anything you like,” he says, and the sheer tenderness in his voice and his touch gives Jack so much courage.

“First of all,” Jack says, crowding closer still and kissing the tip of Eric’s upturned nose. “In case you were still wondering, I like you.”

Eric blinks. “No. Really?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Well, not so much _right this second_ —”

Eric’s mouth interrupts him, soft and lush and soothing. “Shhhh. I know you don’t buy seven different kinds of flour for all the boys.”

Jack is beet red, he knows it. “Um. About that.”

Rising up on one elbow, Eric cocks an eyebrow archly. “Yes. About that. My bone to pick.”

“Yes?” Jack bites his lip, waiting.

Eric looks at Jack for a long moment, then bends to press kisses to his temple, his eyelid, his mouth. 

“You know you don’t have to buy me things to say what you want to say.” He pulls back to look at Jack again, close and warm. “You can just say it, if you’re ready to say it, and if you’re not ready to say anything, that’s okay. But.” Another kiss, longer. “You don’t need to buy me anything.”

“I know, I—” Jack starts, then stops. He swallows, then forces himself to look back at Eric, to meet his gaze. “I wanted to. I liked doing it. For you, but also for the team. Mostly for you,” he laughs. “But it also seemed like a good thing to do. I was happy there. Being on the team was good, and...” Jack blows out a breath through his nose, frustrated with how inarticulate he is. 

Almost involuntarily, he blurts, “And I’m in love with you.” His pulse buzzes through him at the admission. “I wanted to do it. Because I love you.”

Eric stares at him, mouth hanging open, dark eyes wide, and then with a strangled noise he collapses on top of Jack, hands on either side of his face, kissing him hard and messy. 

“I love you too,” he says, the words brushing past Jack’s lips, and Jack laughs, elated. Then, Jack’s stomach growls so loudly that Eric squeaks in surprise and starts to laugh, too.

“Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric chirps, eyes dancing, “did you forget to eat _protein_ this afternoon?”

“Actually,” Jack says, pressing a line of kisses up Eric’s neck to his earlobe, “I did manage a little.”

There’s a pause while Jack lets that sink in, and then Eric cackles and hugs him, kissing everywhere he can reach. 

“Oh my god,” Eric says, breathless with mirth, “you are _filthy_.” He sighs happily and rests his head on Jack’s shoulder, just looking at him. “I love it.”

“I’ll show you filthy,” Jack says.

He does.

_X_

Later, after they find their underwear (Jack’s is hooked around his left ankle; Eric’s is halfway down the hallway to the foyer)—

After Jack shows Eric the kitchen—

After Jack says, “You could make lots of pies in that oven, right?” 

After Eric nearly bowls Jack over— 

After Jack lifts Eric onto the counter and jerks him off slowly until Eric’s nails leave marks in the skin of Jack’s back—

After Jack finally scrounges up some food for them to eat—

After they get distracted from the food by long, dragging kisses on the kitchen island, against the fridge, toppling to the floor—

Eric’s phone starts to buzz.

Jack lifts his spinning head from the Spanish tile, groaning, as Eric pulls his wet mouth off his dick. 

“Oh. Shit,” Eric drawls, heavy-lidded. His tongue dips delicately into the space between the head of Jack’s dick and his foreskin. Jack shudders.

“What?” Jack barely manages.

Eric laughs, and lowers his head to lick a stripe up Jack’s balls. Jack writhes. He laughs again. He sounds drunk. 

“I’ve got Lardo’s fuckin’ car.”

_X_

They do move the car.

Two days later.

_X_

Georgia calls Jack mid-September.

“They want to put you on the cover,” she says, her tone bordering on apologetic. “I explained that you don’t want a lot of attention, that you just want to play hockey and live your life, and they understand that. But you knew this was going to be a big deal from the start.”

Jack swallows, and picks at the sharp corner of his cutting board until a little sliver of wood breaks off. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay?” she asks, surprised. 

“Yeah.”

“You know you need to give him a heads up,” she says.

“Yup,” he says, and hangs up.

He takes a minute to breathe, to watch his pulse shake his fingertips, before dialing out.

“Hey.” Even now he can’t help but smile. “Do you have a minute?”

_X_

It’s a little tricky to figure out the 3-way video chat, but Eric walks him through it via text before they start. They have a plan: Eric will get on with his mom and dad, and then once the hard part is done, he’ll invite Jack to join the group.

Jack waits by his laptop for ninety minutes before the invite comes through.

He clicks ‘Accept,’ and a split-screen video comes up.

Eric is on the left, and Suzanne Bittle is on the right. They’re both sporting red, puffy eyes and the same smile—90% bravado, 10% reflex. 

There is no sign of Coach.

Suzanne says, “Oh! Jack! I—” She cuts off, blinking, dawning realization slackening her features with shock.

Eric says, “Mama, I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Jack Zimmermann.”

“F-fuck!” Suzanne blurts, then immediately puts both hands over her mouth, her eyes huge.

Eric starts to laugh, his head in his hands, fingertips pressed tight to his eyes.

“Um,” Jack says. “Hi. Are you two okay?”

Now Suzanne is laughing, too. She honestly sounds borderline hysterical. “Oh, honey, you’re too sweet.” Her eyes shift, and Jack thinks she must be looking at the video feed of Eric, who is smiling but wiping away more tears. “Dicky, baby, you better believe your daddy is gonna regret stepping out for some air, probably even more than he already does.”

Eric’s brave smile starts to tremble. Jack shifts, impatient with his inability to do anything to help. “Mrs. Bittle—”

“Jack, you know you can call me Suzanne.”

Jack tries for a warm smile. He’s not sure he succeeds. Warm smiles aren’t exactly his specialty.

“Suzanne,” he says, not above deliberately making his accent just a little thicker just to see her melt a little.

In the other half of Jack’s screen, Eric rolls his eyes.

Jack clears his throat, and summons every ounce of sincerity in him. “Suzanne, I know you’ve got a lot to process today, but there is a reason why we’re doing this now.”

Eric wipes his eyes and nose with a tissue, and picks up where Jack left off, just like they talked about. 

“Mama, Jack’s going to come out. He’s going to be the first openly gay player in the NHL.” He smiles, and Jack feels a shiver working the way up his spine at the growing confidence and steadfast devotion on his face. He can almost believe he deserves it. “I love him, and we’re going to be out together.”

Suzanne’s eyes well up with tears again, but she’s still smiling. “Dicky. Jack.” She sniffles unsteadily. “You know I can’t speak for Coach.”

They both nod.

“I am so proud of you both.”

_X_

On October 7th, Jack skates to center ice, Deetz and Jelly flanking him.

Deetz skates over and spits out his mouthguard. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jack replies.

“Nice article in SI.”

“Thanks,” Jack says.

“So, your boyfriend is some kinda semi-famous baker, right?”

“Yep,” Jack says, and wills his cheeks not to flush.

“So, you’re gonna bring in some muffins or something for the team sometime, right?”

Jack can’t stop a happy grin from spreading across his face. “Or something. Maybe.”

Deetz has the nerve to look offended. “What’s this ‘maybe’ crap?”

Jelly comes up on Jack’s other side. “ _Zlom vaz_.”

Jack blinks. “What’s that?”

Deetz rolls his eyes. “He said ‘Break a leg.’ Now you know how he feels when you speak French, which is all the time, Zimboni.”

Jelly says, totally devoid of inflection, “Hey. Deetz. You and Zimboni are done making eyes, yes? We can beat Blackhawks now, yes?”

Jack swivels away, putting in his mouthguard. “Yes. We can.”

_X_

They do.

_X_Epilogue_X_

Jack brings it up with his parents halfway to Samwell.

“Do you think—” He stops, swallows, starts again. “Do you think it’ll overshadow graduation?”

“Hm?” Alicia answers, fiddling with the radio. “How do you mean, _chou-chou_?”

Jack rolls his eyes at the term of endearment, bites his lip, and persists. “It’s a big deal. He’ll have his Master’s degree. I—” He fidgets. “I don’t want to overshadow that.”

Jack’s dad twists around in the passenger seat to fix him with a look that is 100% Bad Bob. “Jack. _Mon fils_. You love him, yes?”

Jack nods, staring at his twisting hands in his lap.

“He loves you, yes?” Bad Bob says.

Jack nods.

“We,” his dad says, gesturing between himself and Alicia, “love him also, yes?”

Jack nods a third time, and lifts his head to smile tremulously at his dad.

“And!” Bad Bob crows, beaming, “You! Are a Stanley Cup Winner, are you not?”

Jack laughs. “Yes. I am.”

“So!” Bob blinks, then looks at Alicia. “What was I saying?”

Alicia laughs, and catches Jack’s eye in the rear view mirror. “Jacques. _Jack_. He’ll say yes.” She laughs again and slaps her palm against the steering wheel of the rental car. “We’ll eat pie at your wedding yet, _mon ange_.”

Jack’s cheeks are hot, and he ducks his head, grinning. 

Alicia flicks on the turn signal, switches lanes; they’re almost there. “Do you have a plan? What did you have in mind?” she asks.

Jack inhales; exhales; feels his pulse pound in his chest, in his fingers, in his toes. His hand, dipping into his jacket pocket, brushes a small box. In a few hours he’ll kiss his boyfriend; get down on one knee; pray he doesn’t stutter. 

The American highway rushes past his window. If he closes his eyes, the wheels almost sound like the rumble of many skates on ice.

In a few hours, Jack’s life is going to change again, and he’s _so happy_. 

In a few hours, but not yet.

Jack knows how to wait; knows this is worth waiting for.

“Oh,” Jack says, elation coursing through him. “Just wait.”

_X_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for "Zimboni" goes to Nny.
> 
> I mostly just reblog crap and post instagram selfies and pictures of my dogs, but if that is your jam you can [tumbl me](http://adisusedshed.tumblr.com) if you wanna.


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